On the following afternoon, the funeral of Mrs. Malone was correctly “performed;” and on the same evening on which I had made my _entree_ on the world, that lamented gentlewoman bade it a last adieu. The mourners separated at the grave-yard, each to return to his respective vocations; and the captain and the fosterer retired to the Fox and Goose, to deliberate on affairs of paramount importance. The question was one of ways and means; and, as it would appear, the subject had not been considered until circumstances imperatively required that financial arrangements should be entered on. “What the devil’s to be done?” observed the ratcatcher. “We’re down to thirty shillings between us--and a week’s rent due to-morrow.” “I thought, before now,” returned the fosterer, with a sigh, “that something would have turned up--but I’m afraid, copteeine, we settled in the wrong quarter of the town for any thing but love, drink, and fighting.” “Feaks,” said the ratcatcher, “and I’m pretty nearly of the same opinion. Mark, jewel--what if we step over to the other side of the city--and may be we might hear of something that one could turn his hand to?” “It’s too late this evening,” replied the fosterer. “Not at all, Mark--it’s scarcely gone eight.” “But Shemus, the truth is, I have a bit of an engagement.” “Where, and what to do?” inquired the ratcatcher, suspiciously. “Why,” said the fosterer, “just as they sodded Mrs. Malone, a girl slipped this letter into my hand.” “What is it about?” “Nothing, but an invitation to tea.” “Taa!” ejaculated the captain, horror-struck. “If ye take to taa-drinkin’, Hector, _avourneeine, its over with ye!_ What destroyed Dick Macknamara but these accursed taa-parties? May the devil smother the first inventer of the same!--And where are ye invited to?” The fosterer, instead of answering the inquiry, presented the billet he had received in the grave-yard to the honest ratcatcher, who, with some difficulty having managed to decypher the writing, read the contents, which were as follow:-- “leg lane, thursday, six o’clok. “dear Sir,--i was gratley Consarnt you shood get in Trubbil on my Acount last Nite, and the Naybors alow ye Behavd lik a Reglar gentleman. Spicer’s gon to the Sittay on bisnis that’il keep him All evenin’--So if you Cood make it Convanient to slip in fair an asey About 8 o’clok, wee wood have a Cup of taa, an’ sum Agreeabel con-versashin. The Favir of yer Compnay will grateley Obleege, “Yours to Comand, “Sarah Spicer.” “P. S.--For the Seak of Geesus, don’t let aney body no Nothin’ at the Fox and Gose--they’r’ Sure to split, an’ no mistake. If Mister Magrale wood sit in the wee Windy next the Door of the Fox, and the divell druv Spicer horn, he’d be sure to see the oul screw Turnin’ the corner, and have Time to give us the offis. ‘My Pen is Bad, my ink is pale, But my Hart too you will niver fail.’ “Your Lovin’ friend, S.-- S --.”